


Electrified

by Zasa



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:07:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29457966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zasa/pseuds/Zasa
Summary: Arthur takes his first life and gains new meaning to his own.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	Electrified

**Author's Note:**

> It's been like a year and a half since I've posted, but here I am, back on my sappy shit.

Arthur had never been struck by lighting but knew what it felt like. 

He was on the cusp of his 16th birthday when he committed his first murder. Viciously. With nothing but his fists. And when the victim's head was an unrecognizable pulp of blood and mangled skin, Arthur stood, gasping and aching, to see Dutch at the mouth of the alleyway. Dutch's eyes flicked to the body, to Arthur's hands, widening as they went. Shocking Dutch was not easy, but neither was it easy for Arthur to wither beneath judgment. Dutch glanced behind him, into the quiet street, then back to Arthur. And again Arthur felt a jolt of something like all-consuming terror. 

He had compromised their plans, gotten drunk, and dragged a stranger who wanted to fight just as badly as Arthur had out of the bar and into the alley. The man had said something to Arthur beforehand. He didn't even remember what. But it set him off. Then he'd...

Fuck.

The law would be on them. There were plenty of witnesses still inside the bar to describe Arthur. He couldn't kill them all. Didn't want to. He didn't want to touch anyone ever again. This is where his temper got him? To kill without even realizing. To endanger Dutch, Hosea, John and Miss Grimshaw. His stomach rolled as Dutch stepped closer. 

"Arthur, did you hear me? Let's. Go."

Dutch's gruff voice brought Arthur another shock, enough to finally break the spell the kept him glued to the spot like a deer before an oncoming train. He hesitantly met Dutch's eyes again. Fury. Fear. Dutch wore them both well. 

Arthur stepped over the body, unable to recall what the stranger looked like before destroying his face. As soon as he was in reach, Dutch seized him by the arm and yanked him toward their horses, hard enough to bruise. 

Another jolt of electricity. It curved along his spine and drew sweat to his palms. Dutch had never laid a hand on him out of anger. Had never intentionally hurt him. It made Arthur stumble, and though he didn't fall, made him feel shredded and raw. His father...

"Can you ride?" Dutch hissed into his ear, breath coming quick and sharp. 

Arthur shook Dutch off and climbed onto his horse, blood streaking her coat. He had to get it together. The punishment would be devastating, but it could always be worse if he pushed it. 

Dutch saddled up as soon as Arthur was settled, as though he'd expected Arthur to fall. It wasn't until they were galloping off road that his head began spinning. His stomach soured. He'd fucked up bad, and his skin tingled as if anticipating the smack of a belt.

Dutch led them the opposite way of their camp, fearing someone may follow, Arthur assumed, but dared not ask. The first thing out of his mouth should be an apology, but words couldn't fix this. Acting as though they would might make Dutch angrier. It always had his father. 

Desert turned to shrubland. It was only when they were into the plains and tucked inside a stretch of forest did they stop. Arthur's peripheral vision had dimmed to the point where he trusted his horse more than himself and let the mare follow Dutch's steed unprompted up to that point. Now he cracked his eyes open, and already Dutch was dismounted and at his side, arms up.

"Arthur. Come here," Dutch said when Arthur hadn't moved. 

Arthur let his eyes shut again, too heavy to fight. He never remembered feeling this exhausted before.

An arm wrapped around his waist, tugged him sideways. He started to grab the saddle horn until he realized Dutch was telling him to stop struggling. Was Dutch trying to drag him to the dirt as Arthur had done to the stranger? Was Dutch going to hit him? Maybe the horrible electric feeling would finally subside if he did. Just bloody him up and get it over with. 

"Dutch," Arthur croaked.

"God, you're a heavy bastard. When'd you get this big?"

When Dutch and Hosea began feeding him. When his life went from sleeping in the streets and begging to a home, a family, and a structure. They had saved his life. Enriched it. He fucked up. 

Arthur didn't hear the creek until Dutch was splashing him with its chilled water. He cracked his eyes open toward the canopy of trees hanging above them, evening sun streaking the highest branches. Birds of prey swooped across the sky, as if smelling the stranger's blood soaked into his clothes. 

Dutch ripped open his shirt. 

Arthur lifted his head.

His blood. It was his blood lining the inside of his shirt. His blood caked into his skin. His blood welling from a gash an inch from his belly button. 

The hell? Had Dutch stabbed him?

Dutch lifted his eyes and glared. "Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?" 

'What?' Arthur wanted to say, but his mouth was too dry to work. He couldn't hold his head up anymore. He lost sight of Dutch but couldn't see the trees anymore either. 

A searing god-awful pain. It sunk into his abdomen, lit his nerves aflame. The skyline was spinning and Dutch was pouring a travel bottle of expensive alcohol along Arthur's stomach, old and new blood pooling in the grass at his sides.

"What did you say to the bastard to earn his blade?" Dutch's voice was tight, expression tighter. He kept glancing at Arthur, wanting an answer.

The stranger did this? Without Arthur realizing? But Dutch had known. He supposed the unending spout of fresh blood was a dead giveaway. As for Arthur? Arenaline was a hell of a drug. 

But now the pain was there, full-force, and vomit rose up his throat. He shut his eyes, more to keep concentrating on keeping his stomach settled.

Dutch slapped him. Hard. The sound rang through the trees. The pain momentarily made him forget about his stomach and jerk upright, causing another rush of blood. 

There it was. Punishment. But Dutch looked stricken. His voice shook. "Damn it. Sorry, son. I'm sorry. Just stay awake."

It was a command Arthur knew he couldn't follow. He was so tired. Too weak to even keep his head up. It was a vulture, he thought, circling them far above, waiting for Arthur to stop moving. 

"Please," Dutch croaked, so unnaturally desperate. "Talk to me. What got you and that man fighting, huh? Did he rob you? Did you rob him?"

"I swear, Dutch," Arthur said softly, but it made Dutch's face light up anyway. "You have a one track mind."

Dutch snickered. "Maybe so. But so do you. Drinking and fighting. At least robbin' is productive."

Arthur swallowed a knot in his throat, unable to get it all down. He felt like he was sinking under a cold wave. It might feel good to shut his eyes and let it carry him where it wanted. But Dutch kept meeting his half-lidded eyes. The hope that Arthur had triggered by talking was waning. Dutch fumbled with a spare shirt he kept in his saddlebag, ripping it into one long makeshift bandage, begging Arthur to stay awake.

"I think," Arthur begain. "...think I killed that feller."

"Looked like it."

He felt...not at all like he expected. Perhaps the feeling of power came only when you killed someone who deserved it. It more felt like he'd pulled a wounded rabbit from a trap and kicked it's skull in. Dutch had taught him to protect himself, but who was out there teaching people to protect themselves from Arthur? The man had gotten some good punches in, and a knife apparently, but Arthur had been raised the last two years learning to hold his own in a fight. It seemed savage to have started something he knew he could end.

Seeing something in his expression, Dutch said, "oh, come on, son. Don't be like that."

"Like what?" Arthur whispered.

"Guilty. He obviously intended to do just the same to you."

"I didn't mean to, though. I don't think."

"Well, things don't always work out like we mean. For instance, I wanted to ride into that town to scope out the bank. Look what happened." He winked, though kept his face stern. 

Arthur huffed, then grimaced. Dutch wound the shirt around him. He assumed he'd need stitches, but it seemed it was something that could wait. Miss Grimshaw was better at stitching anyway. 

"That should stop the bleedin', so long as you don't decide to pick a fight with a bear out here."

"Now that would be a fair fight," Arthur said quietly.

Dutch laughed, though it was with the jagged wariness that came with close calls. Even though Arthur knew Dutch was more relieved at getting out of town without being seen, a small part of Arthur warmed to the idea that maybe Dutch was just as relieved that Arthur hadn't died. Not yet. He sat at Arthur's side and dumped his saddlebag, breaking open a can of peaches and sitting Arthur's head in his lap so he could swallow the food down without choking. 

Arthur rolled his neck, trying to get away. 

"Quit that, boy, and eat. Get some sugar in your system and you'll be right as rain."

It was strangely comforting to be coddled and, too tried to fight any longer, Arthur obliged. Though he fed himself. He wasn't going to let it go that far, fearing Dutch would notice him enjoying it. Fearing, as always, that no matter how accepting Dutch seemed, how loving, one day it would stop. The more he reciprocated that perceived love, the worse it would feel when it was ripped away. 

"Looks like you got a lot on your mind for once."

Arthur smirked up at Dutch, hand shaking. "Don't get used to it."

"I am nothing if not aware of your shortcomings, Arthur." He ruffled Arthur's hair, some of the tension going out of his shoulders. 

Arthur could only scarf down a few bites, but Dutch seemed satisfied enough. Arthur took it as a sign that it was time to pack up and go, but he lifted his head an inch to feel the world churn. Dutch steadied him, putting Arthur's head back in his lap.

"Well you gotta give it time, son. Don't worry, we ain't got nowhere more important to be."

"Cept the bank," Arthur said after a moment. His ears were ringing, signaling just how close he had been to passing out. He wanted to sleep, but Dutch was watching him closely.

"Lucky for you, I didn't much like the looks of that bank anyway."

Lucky. No doubt. If it had been to Dutch's liking and Arthur stirred up the law, then what? What would Dutch have done. His face was still stinging where Dutch had slapped him. The shame returned ten fold. He deserved much more of a punishment than that. It could have ended so badly. 

"Arthur, I know you prefer writing over speaking, but maybe you wanna fill me in on why you looked so afraid of me?"

Arthur made an effort not to react, but Dutch could read people all too well to miss the tensing of his jaws. "I thought you were the law."

"No you didn't."

"I..." Arthur trailed off, afraid the silence that followed spoke more than anything he could say. 

"I ain't your daddy."

"I know that," Arthur bit, face burning. It was a good sign that his blood pressure was returning to normal, but God awful timing. He sat up, rising out of Dutch's embrace. 

"Arthur."

Arthur couldn't help it. He looked back, pulled in by the soft tone Dutch so rarely used. 

"I ain't your real daddy, but you're my son. Always will be. Nothing can change that." 

Arthur looked ahead again, head bowed toward the edge of the creek. "Okay," was all he said, low, embarrased, and unsure.

Dutch sighed. "You don't have to take my word for it. I'll show you." He stood then, heading for their horses and pulling their sleeping bags free. Guess they were playing it safe and staying here for night. "You won't be able to get rid of me," Dutch went on. "I'll be clinging to you until I'm old and senile, and you'll be so tired of me you'll shoot me just to put me out of my misery."

Arthur laughed at that, watched Dutch grin in reply as he spread their sleeping bags. 

"I'll be old then too," Arthur said. "Get John to put you out of your misery, and me while you're at it."

"Alright. Deal." He motioned at Arthur's sleeping bag, telling him without telling him that he could rest now. Even though the sun would be up for another hour, Arthur picked himself up and sunk into the cool press of fabric, relieved he could sleep without worry. Dutch would be watching over him.

"If we go down, we go down together," Dutch said. "See? You can't live without me either."

That was true, Arthur realized. Horrifically true. He was fairly sure he'd choose death over living in a world where Dutch either no longer loved him or was too dead to do it. Maybe that was all he needed to die happy, old or not: someone to love him on his way to the next life. He hoped against all odds that it would be Dutch guiding him to his death. Dutch could even stay behind a while if he wanted, so long as he joined Arthur in the very end. 

He slept soundly.


End file.
